


Luck Out

by Anonymous



Category: Yu-Gi-Oh!
Genre: Extremely Dubious Consent, Fight Sex, M/M, Mind Control, Post-Apocalypse, Strangulation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-19
Updated: 2018-11-19
Packaged: 2019-08-19 23:21:25
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,998
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16544267
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: Kaiba looked at him, and his eyes flashed with startled recognition. It lasted only a second. Then his lip curled.“Jounouchi,” he said. “You’re alive.”





	Luck Out

There was man walking on the side of the road.

It wouldn’t be so odd if Jounouchi hadn’t seen another living, breathing human being for—shit, about a month now, and if the last few he _had_ seen hadn’t tried to kill him. These days, people could just as likely try to murder you as be friendly, but he always had to check. Yuugi would check.

He pulled up behind the man, thin like he’d been pushed into a space too narrow for his body, like he walked around pressed between two invisible walls. The stale afternoon light caught on the edge of something shiny on his wrist, on the rich earth-brown of his hair. Jounouchi bit the inside of his cheek, squinting against the glare. He seemed familiar. Something about the way he walked. The set of his shoulders.

Then he turned around.

Jounouchi almost couldn’t believe it. He almost laughed. Pure, giddy relief flooded him before he remembered that he hated this man’s guts, or used to. But he didn’t care. It was some kind of crazy miracle. There was another person on this desolate rock, and it was someone he knew—the smartest, most resourceful person he knew, and he was _alive._

He was pulling up to the shoulder before he could think twice, calling out, “Hey, Kaiba! Need a lift?”

Kaiba looked at him, and his eyes flashed with startled recognition. It lasted only a second. Then his lip curled.

“Jounouchi,” he said. “You’re alive.”

His gaze congealed, flicking over Jounouchi, cataloging. The motorcycle (Honda's, from before), the stubble, the battered, hole-ridden clothing, stained in places. Jounouchi knew he didn’t look all that pretty, but neither did Kaiba, thinner and older and gaunter than he'd ever seen him, like a stretched-out shadow, dark circles under his eyes—still that icy, unnatural blue. He wore black clothes, hardy and durable: dark, thick jeans, black turtleneck, studded leather jacket. Black canvas knapsack with fuck knew what was inside. It was the most dressed-down Jounouchi had ever seen him, stark and practical and jarringly un-Kaiba. But these days, nobody wanted to stand out. Some sacrifices had to be made.

But something… something was still wrong.

What the fuck was he _doing_ walking in the middle of nowhere like this? In the open, by himself? Jounouchi would've expected him to get out of Japan. He had the money and resources to hole up somewhere nice, somewhere safe and protected. He could’ve gotten out before the entire country went to shit. He had a private jet, didn't he? Or used to.

And then he realized.

“Where's Mokuba?”

Kaiba turned away and kept walking.

Jounouchi’s stomach dropped. There was no way. No way Mokuba was dead. Not with Kaiba Seto for a brother. Missing, maybe? Was Kaiba looking for him? Was that why he was still here, alone, wandering around looking like he hadn’t slept since he was born?

Whatever it was, Jounouchi couldn’t just _leave_ him there. He gave the bike a little gas and pulled up right in front of him, cutting him off.

“I'm serious. Get on. I’m not leaving until you do.”

He thought Kaiba would sneer and turn him down, and he’d have to work a little harder at getting him to agree—play to his practical side, or to his pride, maybe call him a few names—but instead Kaiba looked at him narrowly for a long moment, said, “I hope you drive better than you duel,” and then climbed on behind him.

Jounouchi was just getting over the bizarre shock of that when he said, “I drive better than _you_ duel. So, where to?”

Kaiba was silent.

“Fine, whatever,” Jounouchi said. “You're going my way today, rich boy. Hang on.”

He put the bike back in gear. Kaiba’s arms slid around his middle, cinching tight. Jounouchi took a second to marvel at the sheer novelty of being voluntarily touched by Kaiba, of all people, before they were speeding off down the highway toward what was left of Osaka.

For a while, all he had for company was the white noise of rushing wind, the complete unreality of Kaiba’s front pressed against his back, the pressure of his knees bracketing his thighs; the weirdly comforting warmth and weight of his arms belted across his waist. It was surreal, a constant distraction, but also oddly soothing—Jounouchi hadn’t realized how much he had craved another human being’s touch until right then, how much he had sincerely missed being held.

That it was Kaiba Seto, the man who had helped make this living nightmare possible, was the shit filling in an irony sandwich. Life was real funny like that.

He kept going until he found a service station on the very outskirts of Nara. Like everywhere else under the sun, it had been raided, windows smashed in, shelves mostly empty, but there was enough leftover supplies and hopefully enough gas to refuel for another couple of hours’ travel tomorrow. The trick was to keep rural, stay away from populated areas—much easier now that most everyone was dead. Still, it made it harder to pinpoint where survivors were going to pop out of the woodwork, and whether or not they meant any harm. Traveling alone was always dicey. Humans could be so cruel.

The rumble of the engine died, and Kaiba’s arms unwound themselves from around his waist.

Jounouchi tried not to feel too disappointed over the loss of contact, and then tried not to get too pissed at himself for thinking about Kaiba like he was some kind of friend.

It was just—Yuugi used to hug him all the time. He missed that easy companionship. He missed _Yuugi._

He had no idea if he was alive, either. He wasn’t even in the country, so even if Jounouchi set out trying to find him, it would be useless. And there was no fucking way he was getting to Egypt, let alone off this island. Not this year. Not next year. Maybe never.

Better not to dwell on it. He was already looking for his mom and his sister. They had to be out there, somewhere. If he could find them—it’d be a start. And Yuugi was smart; even if Egypt was ground zero, he would’ve found a way to avoid the worst of it. Somehow. He still had Atem’s favor, even if he was safely enjoying eternity in the afterlife, away from all this shit. That was more than enough, right?

Jounouchi still remembered seeing those first few images on the news. Nobody had known what the hell was going on, but then the footage had come in front Egypt: a monstrous demon, as tall as the Spring Temple Buddha, with wide slavering jaws, backlit by a sky swarming with flecks of glittering black. And below that, headlines about some long-buried Ancient Egyptian curse being unleashed during a Kaiba Corporation-funded dig.

Then—clips of people dying. Being eaten. Being hollowed out.

And soon after, a frantic phone call from Yuugi, telling him what he needed to do to stay alive.

If Kaiba hadn’t gone trying to find Atem’s tomb…

Fucking _Kaiba._ Couldn’t leave well enough alone, could he? Just couldn’t fucking help himself.

Kaiba had always been easy to hate. Now it was even easier.

But it wouldn’t help. Jounouchi knew how to hate Kaiba better than anyone. He had more reason than anyone to loathe his vile, shriveled guts. But he’d seen it back then, clear as anything, so sad and _obvious_. Kaiba had done what he'd done out of a twisted sense of grief. He’d never been willing to let Atem go, not even after he’d cheated death to get his closure. Now he paid the heavy price.

Maybe he’d finally learned that sometimes, no matter what you did, you couldn’t win.

Avoiding Kaiba’s gaze, Jounouchi locked the motorcycle up with a length of chain and a padlock to one of the service station support columns, then put the keys around his neck. He felt Kaiba’s eyes heavy on him, tracking his movements, a silent, mocking stare. It prickled at him, but he refused to get riled up. Wasn’t worth it.

He was tired. And—maybe Kaiba was a bastard, but he couldn’t be _unaffected_ by the fact that more than half of the world’s population was just… gone. Dead, or empty. And if Mokuba was missing, well, he must be pretty fucked up over that, at least. Even if it didn't show. Jounouchi knew that much.

So even if Kaiba bit the hand extended to him, Jounouchi would still offer it. Yuugi would.

He nodded to the pack. “You got something to sleep on in there?”

Kaiba shot him a nasty, scathing look.

Jounouchi narrowed his eyes right back. “Hey. I’m trying to be nice.”

“Good for you.”

“For fuck’s—just leave off, Kaiba. I don’t want to fight. Enough shit’s going on as it is.”

He watched Kaiba shoulder off his bag, but he didn’t take anything out; just held it from the haul strap like a briefcase. And then Jounouchi realized the second thing that had been bothering him since he’d seen Kaiba walking on the side of the road like some weird desert mirage, not _right_ in a way he couldn’t really explain.

“Why aren’t you carrying any weapons?” he said.

There wasn’t even a knife on his belt. These days, everyone carried a knife. It was nearly impossible to live without one.

Kaiba looked at him sideways, halfway to a sneer, and didn’t answer.

Jounouchi pressed, “What, you got a gun in there or something?”

That would explain a few things. The weight of the pack, for one. But who kept a gun in a _bag?_ Kaiba wasn't stupid. Even if firearms weren’t still illegal, if he was packing heat, it would be in a holster, stored safely and within easy reach.

Again, he didn’t answer. Jounouchi’s annoying questions obviously weren’t worth his time. Asshole.

It probably wasn’t a gun. It could probably hurt a person, but it probably wasn’t a gun. How Kaiba had survived this long without a real weapon was beyond him, but then again, it was _Kaiba_ , so whatever he was doing was obviously working for him. He did weird, impossible shit all the time. Or used to, before Domino burned to the ground.

Well, whatever. They were traveling together now—Jounouchi would find out eventually.

Afternoon tipped toward evening. The shrilling of the cicadas seemed to grow even louder. Jounouchi set up behind the counter, dumping his bag and his bat on the floor. He put out his makeshift embalming kit—bottles of cedar wood, resin, cinnamon, sawdust, honey, and salt—and sealed the area off with some more table salt off of the shelves. Kaiba, surprisingly, followed him behind the counter, but set up where he could see the exit: a straight line of sight, his back to the wall. He didn’t seem like he was going to sleep anytime soon. He did check the shiny thing on his wrist, though. Jounouchi nodded at it.

“What is that thing?” It looked like some kind of cuff. A watch, maybe? But he couldn't see a clock face or a digital display.

“None of your business.”

Big surprise there. “Just asking,” Jounouchi said, rolling his eyes.

“Stop asking.”

“Sure, soon as you go fuck yourself.”

Kaiba made an annoyed sound and continued to ignore him.

Jounouchi sighed. Right—trying to be nice. Nice to Kaiba. Way harder than Yuugi had made it seem. Jounouchi rummaged around in his pack for some food and came up with a few strips of venison jerky he’d made last week. He took one, tapped it moodily on his knuckles, and offered it out.

“Want some jerky?”

“No.”

He’d seen that one coming a mile away. Jounouchi threw the strip at him. It bounced flatly off of Kaiba’s chest and landed in his lap.

“Eat it. You look like a fuckin’ ghost.”

“No. I’m not hungry.”

“Bullshit. Eat it, or I’ll make you eat it.”

“I’d like to see you try.”

Jounouchi tore a chunk off of his own jerky, pettily imagining it was Kaiba’s head. “Don’t tempt me.”

Kaiba flicked the strip down one of the aisles. It skidded into a pile of dust and broken glass.

_Dick._

Jounouchi bit his tongue to keep from yelling at him—food was a precious fucking resource!—and got up to retrieve it, gingerly wiping it off on his thigh. He’d wash it later, or boil it, or something. It’d be good as new. For now, it went back into the bag.

He sat back down and continued to eat in irritated silence, chewing grumpily.

“Most people aren’t too happy when they find out who I am,” Kaiba said suddenly.

“Yeah, well, I’ve never been happy with you.” Jounouchi picked his teeth and took a gulp of water from his bottle. “What’s new.”

“I mean, they usually try to kill me.”

Jounouchi was surprised, and then not very surprised at all. “You think I’m gonna try to _kill_ you?”

Kaiba snorted. “No,” he said. “You wouldn’t get very far, anyway.”

Jounouchi pointed at him. “Let’s get one thing straight. You didn’t know what was going to happen. I don’t blame you for that.” Yuugi wouldn’t have blamed him for it either; Yuugi would’ve forgiven him for everything. “I blame you for all the other shit you’ve done to me and my friends. I blame you for being an asshole. But I’ve never killed anyone, I don’t _want_ to kill anyone, I’m not gonna start now, and definitely not with you. If anything, you’re the only person who can get us out of this mess.” He sat back. “Besides, I’m tired of fighting about shit that doesn’t matter. It’s over. It’s done. No point obsessing over the past. Gotta look to the future. It's all we got left.”

Kaiba looked at him, an expression of faintly derisive calculation on his face. “And what exactly do you think is in your future, Jounouchi?”

“Not dying. Getting the fuck out of here with my mom and sister. Finding my friends. Going somewhere safe.” He touched the misanga bracelet Shizuka had woven for him as part of his graduation gift. A lifetime ago, when he'd worked at a Family Mart in order to take care of his piece of shit dad, and Shizuka still texted him every Saturday to tell him about her week. He paused, and then glanced at Kaiba pointedly. “You, fixing this.”

“It can’t be fixed,” Kaiba said, looking out of the busted window. “And your family is probably dead.”

Jounouchi glared at him. Real ray of sunshine, this guy. “Yeah? And what about Mokuba?”

The air between them fragmented and chilled. He could almost see the ice crystals form.

“You’re looking for him, aren’t you? That’s why you’re still here. There’s no way you’d ever leave him behind.”

Kaiba was coldly silent.

Jounouchi was no stranger to deliberately failing to read the atmosphere, but he sensed this line of inquiry was on a one-way street to shattering their tentative truce, so he let it fizzle and die. After several tense minutes, where the line of Kaiba’s shoulders relaxed only a fraction, he said, “You wanna play a game?”

That got Kaiba to look at him. “Don’t tell me you kept your deck.”

“Yep,” Jounouchi said. It had been one of only a few valuables he’d saved—not that he’d had much to save in the first place. “You still got yours?”

“Yes,” Kaiba said.

Of course. “Well, come on. Get it out.”

“I would, but unfortunately, it’s orbiting four-hundred and twenty kilometers above the Earth’s surface,” Kaiba said flatly.

Jounouchi stared at him. “You left it on your fucking _space station?_ ”

“Of course I did. It’s safe there. Why the hell would I bring it here?”

 _Because the thought of you running around without one weirds me out._ Every time he thought the two Venn diagram circles of “Kaiba” and “normal people” came even a little bit close to finally intersecting, shit like this reminded him that actually, no, they weren’t even in the same _hemisphere_. He blew out a breath. “I can’t believe that thing’s still up there.”

Kaiba gave him a withering look. “Why wouldn’t it be?”

“Well, you know… what if it crashes?”

“It operates primarily on solar power, and there are safety measures in place to automatically adjust for orbital decay. Even if all my staff all suddenly died, it would continue to run, barring some freak technological malfunction.”

Shit, that was weird to think about. “They’ve been up there since before the—since before?”

“Yes.”

“And they haven’t even seen their families? They’re just stuck up there, with no way to get down?”

“For the time being.”

Jounouchi ran hand through his hair, tugging. “Fuck, man. How are they gonna survive? What if they run out of food?”

Kaiba said, “The station is self-sustaining,” in the exact same way he might have said, _you are a fucking moron._ “It has an oxygen garden, recyclable water, and carbon dioxide scrubbers. Food is grown and harvested on-site, and there are more than enough backup rations in case of an emergency. My employees will be fine. You should be more worried about the ISS; they’re probably all dead by now, unless NASA was able to get them more supplies.”

What a fucking mood-killer.

Jounouchi didn’t reach for his dueling deck. Instead, he reached past it and got out the battered 52-card French deck that had seen one too many games of Solitaire and tapped the cards out onto the palm of his hand, tossing the fraying cardboard case back into his pack. He was officially done talking about depressing shit.

“Hope you don’t mind lowering yourself to a commoner’s game of Spades.”

“You know I can count cards, right?” Kaiba said, watching him shuffle.

“Yeah, well, don’t,” Jounouchi said. He bridged the cards between his palms. “I know, big ask. But try to find it in your shriveled little heart to play fair.”

Kaiba snorted. Jounouchi handed him the deck. He cut it and handed it back.

Jounouchi dealt. They played a few games of Spades (all of which Kaiba won, the opportunistic bastard), a few rounds of Seven Bridge (which, being a rummy game, was pretty even-keeled), and a round or two of Napoleon (by then, Jounouchi had stopped caring about the score, even if Kaiba seemed meanly pleased). By the time they’d finished, the sun was dipping below the horizon, and it was getting too dim to see. Jounouchi put the cards away.

“Time for bed,” he mumbled, stretching. His spine creaked and popped. “You want to take turns on watch?”

Kaiba made a noncommittal noise and didn’t look at him.

Jounouchi sighed, annoyed. “Whatever. Suit yourself. Wake me up when you get tired.” He put the cards away, curled up in his sleeping bag, and passed out with his nose filled with the comforting scents of cedar and honey.

He had a strange dream. In the dream, everything was the same—it was dark, and the air was balmy, and they were both wedged behind the counter of an empty service station—but Kaiba’s neck was craned up, and he was talking to someone: a small, familiar shape.

_Yuugi!_

But it wasn’t Yuugi. From his position crumpled against the counter, Jounouchi watched them. Their voices were too low for him to catch—just vague rumbling murmurs. After a moment, the murmuring stopped, and Atem put a hand on Kaiba’s shoulder. They stayed that way for a while. Then the figure changed: it was no longer Atem standing there, but Mokuba.

He looked older, limbs longer, lankier, hair shorter. More like his brother. He sat down next to Kaiba and put his head on his shoulder, his hand in Kaiba’s hand. Jounouchi couldn’t see much of Kaiba’s face at this angle, just his severe profile, but the line of his shoulders seemed to relax. He leaned his head so that his jaw was resting against the crown of Mokuba’s skull. Mokuba was smiling, and seemed to radiate contentment. There was no more talking—just unbroken, comfortable silence.

Jounouchi watched them for a long time, an ache deep in his chest and behind his eyes, until everything blurred back into darkness.

He woke up to the strange sensation of someone else’s fingers against his sternum, as light as a feather, searching.

He blinked, bleary-eyed, and saw the tall dark figure of Kaiba hunched over him.

“Kaiba?” he rasped. “What the hell are you doing?”

Kaiba froze. There was a split-second where Jounouchi realized, all at once, what he was trying to do. And then Kaiba punched him in the face.

Jounouchi’s skull cracked back onto the tile floor. Stars exploded in front of his eyes, and he felt his nose begin to bleed. But he’d been ready for it, had known what was coming, and had his hand fisted in Kaiba’s jacket lapel even as his vision blurred. It’d been a while since he’d scrapped like this, but not too long that his reflexes had gotten rusty—you always had to be ready for a fight, and that instinct had never left him. Kaiba was straddling him, trying to get under his shirt, but Jounouchi bucked and twisted, wriggling, and got an elbow up right in his face.

Stupid. Stupid to trust this asshole. Stupid to assume they’d want the same thing.

Kaiba reared back to avoid it, and Jounouchi forced himself up, furious. All the anger he’d been shoving down roared back to life like a bushfire, and he got hold of Kaiba’s collar and punched him hard. Kaiba’s face snapped to the side.

“You fucking bastard! You were gonna steal my bike and leave me here?”

Kaiba blocked his next hit and kneed him in the gut. Jounouchi wheezed in pain, and Kaiba got a fistful of his hair and hissed, “Just give me the keys, and you won’t have to embarrass yourself.”

“Fuck you!” Jounouchi aimed two jabs at Kaiba’s ribs. “That’s—that’s all I have left of Honda, you _selfish prick_ —”

They went rolling again, banging into the counter. Salt was everywhere, grinding into his palms. If he could just stop Kaiba from getting to the keys around his neck—but Kaiba wasn’t going for his shirt anymore, he was going for his own pack, and suddenly Jounouchi knew he had to stop him from getting there at all costs: whatever was in that bag was nothing good.

He grabbed the back of Kaiba’s jacket and dragged him down, trying to get him into a submission hold, but Kaiba wormed out of it. Even in such a cramped space, he was quick, and his skill in self-defense was obvious. Fuck. If he could just—

“Get—back here—” Jounouchi growled, as Kaiba wrenched away, swung around, and delivered a devastating hit to his jaw. Jounouchi yelped in pain, stunned, but managed to catch Kaiba’s ankle, pulling him back a second time. “No—you—fucking—don’t!”

Kaiba hissed, kicking out. This time, the heel of his boot cracked into Jounouchi’s temple, and light exploded behind his eyes. Blood started to pour down the side of his face, his neck, soaking the collar of his shirt. Kaiba was still crawling away.

Jounouchi launched himself forward and slammed Kaiba back down onto the tile. They rolled. Blood dripped from his nose onto Kaiba’s face, painting his cheek with a streak of red. He snarled, but Jounouchi got his hands on Kaiba’s thin wrists, squeezing hard. He’d always had a couple more pounds of muscle on the guy, but it was even more obvious now that Kaiba was beneath him, skinny and feral, writhing like a fish out of water, trying to buck him off.

It was so violent that Jounouchi lost his hold on one of Kaiba’s wrists, which flew up to his throat and clamped down like a vice.

He choked. Even if he _looked_ as flat as a pressed flower, Kaiba was still freakishly strong, with sharp nails that cut into his skin like claws. Jounouchi’s other hand went to his bony wrist, trying to get him to let go, but Kaiba wasn't budging, and he _couldn't breathe._

“K—Kai—”

This was bad. Blood dripped down the side of his neck like sweat. He was starting to get dizzy. Everything was going hot and liquid, like a heat shimmer, and Kaiba’s grip was like iron, his body radiating heat. Jounouchi realized with a shaky jolt that he hadn't been touched in so long, so fucking long, and his dumb lizard brain was reacting like a starving man faced with the first food he'd seen in weeks, and the lack of air was just compounding it somehow, smashing arousal down on top of him like a hammer blow.

He wheezed, trying to drag in oxygen. He couldn’t think; his cock was hard. Completely involuntarily, his hips bucked against Kaiba’s stomach.

Kaiba’s eyes flashed, and his expression turned incredulous.

His grip loosened, but not by much. Jounouchi gasped and scrabbled at his hand. “Kaiba,” he croaked. He had to tell him to stop—he needed air, he needed to come, he needed to punch him in his stupid face.

Kaiba shifted underneath him, no longer trying to get away.

He put a thigh between Jounouchi’s legs.

“Go on,” he said, eyes glinting in the dark. “Get off on me, you pathetic animal.”

A dizzying, furious thrill went up his spine. The pressure was bliss against his aching dick. Kaiba pushed up, bracing against him, and started moving his thigh in slow, punishing circles. Jounouchi whimpered, scrabbling. He was enraged, but it felt so fucking good; the pleasure drowned him before he could even begin to fight to stay above water. He rocked forward, grinding down in short, shallow thrusts. The way Kaiba held his neck, the heavy pressure on his balls, his dick shoving against the hard muscle of Kaiba’s thigh; he couldn’t see, couldn’t breathe, it was too much—

Light exploded behind his eyes. They rolled up into his head, cock twitching hard; his entire body jerked as he came in his jeans. His vision blurred and went dark, but then Kaiba let go, and Jounouchi wheezed and went to all fours on top of him, coughing wetly, even as his hips bucked, as he still came.

“Shit,” he croaked, shuddering. Kaiba’s face was cold and impassive, just inches away, pale in the moonlight filtering in from the shattered windows. He got a fist in Jounouchi’s hair and yanked his head back. “Give me the keys,” he said again.

Jounouchi hissed, put a hand on Kaiba’s stomach, felt down and— _yes_. He grabbed the hard outline of Kaiba’s dick.

“Heh,” he rasped, grinning a sticky smile. “Knew it.”

Kaiba slapped him. It was a heavy-handed blow, and Jounouchi’s brain rattled in his skull, but he held on, skating the pad of his thumb over the long curve of Kaiba’s cock, trapped tight against his upper thigh. But Kaiba wasn’t trying to writhe away anymore—he was barely moving at all. Jounouchi watched a dark, unreadable expression flash across his face. Fear? Arousal? Hate?

Then it was gone, and this time, Kaiba aimed an elbow right at his nose. Jounouchi had to let him go to block it, but the force of the blow still knocked him sideways, enough that Kaiba could shove out from under him, twist, and get a hand inside the open knapsack.

Jounouchi saw what was inside. Horror flooded him, but so did grim understanding, and he knew exactly how Kaiba was making it alone, untouched, with no weapons. But before he could yell at him to stop, Kaiba had the scepter in hand, and was pointing it right at him, and suddenly everything slowed to a calm, familiar halt.

The panic drained away. So did the pain. He felt completely at ease. What was so urgent? There was nothing to be afraid of.

Kaiba was breathing hard, but his voice was flat, cool and steady.

“Give me the keys,” he repeated, and Jounouchi found himself reaching down into the neck of his shirt and drawing them up. He pulled the cord over his head and handed them over.

“Good boy,” said Kaiba; his voice a scathing, condescending lash. But Jounouchi didn’t mind. He _was_ good. He’d done exactly what his master had asked of him, and the knowledge of that fact was deeply, warmly satisfying. He existed to please Kaiba; there was nothing else he would rather do.

He knelt there, awaiting further instructions, but Kaiba gave him none. He turned the keys over in his fingers, looking at them—then glanced back down at Jounouchi, eyes narrowed. He stayed that way for a long moment, a figure silhouetted against the night sky, against the empty shelves, the blown-out fluorescents, the cracked ceiling tiles.

The scepter’s eye glowed.

Reality slammed back into Jounouchi. He could think again. Disgusted rage filled him, but he couldn’t speak, couldn’t move. Kaiba had given his mind back, but not his body. He wanted to scream.

 _Fucker,_ Jounouchi thought, as viciously as he could. He hoped Kaiba could fucking hear him, somehow. _You heartless piece of shit!_

Kaiba was always going to steal the bike. No wonder he’d agreed to come along so easily—he’d only done it to get Jounouchi’s guard down. He was just the same as he’d always been: a callous, cold-blooded bastard who took what he wanted with no regard for other people’s feelings. Nothing mattered to him but winning.

It took a monumental force of will to utter the word, but Jounouchi managed it somehow, groaning it out like it’d been ripped straight from his gut. He was dizzy with the effort. “Why?”

Kaiba stared at him, and then gave a short, derisive laugh. “I guess I shouldn’t be surprised. You always _were_ annoyingly willful.”

Jounouchi waited for an answer, fighting tooth and nail against his supernatural prison, but the scepter’s power had clamped back down on him, unbreakable. Whatever the strength of Jounouchi’s will, Kaiba’s was just as strong.

Eventually Kaiba said, “You have something I need. I’m taking it.” He paused, and then added flatly, “It’s not personal. It just happened to be you.”

 _Felt_ real fucking personal. Psychotic fuck.

Had Kaiba finally snapped? The weight of all those dead people on his shoulders, the initial media pressure, the blame, the disgrace—not that it mattered now—and then his little brother, missing, or maybe he really was dead, and Kaiba was chasing a ghost he was never going to find, reaching through mist for a memory.

Suddenly, he remembered his dream. And was hit with the jagged certainty that it _wasn’t_ a dream, that he'd woken up instead, that Atem and Mokuba had really been there. Constructions of them, anyway. Memories made real.

Jounouchi’s eyes darted to the silvery wrist cuff Kaiba wore, and he understood in a hazy rush. That thing—that thing could project Solid Vision. They’d been holograms.

Fucking hell. Was that how he was handling it? Pretending with simulacrums of people he missed? Playing with puppets he made up in his own head, just so he wouldn’t have to be so alone?

It was so messed up, it almost made him feel sorry for the bastard.

“But I have to admit, I’m glad it was you,” Kaiba said, eyes glinting maliciously. “Anyone else might have been a challenge.”

Now _that_ was personal.

The scepter’s eye glowed again, and Jounouchi’s jaw loosened. His mouth was his own.

“Fuck you,” he spat immediately. “You know what? You’re right. I never should’ve trusted you. I thought—I thought we might be able to help each other. But you’re just the same old selfish bastard you’ve always been.”

“And you really are just like a dog. Quick to trust, easy to fool.” Kaiba’s eyes dropped condemningly to his groin, the rude, conspicuous wet spot. Jounouchi’s face reddened with humiliated rage. He could still feel the sharp imprint of Kaiba’s nails on his neck, the cinch of his unyielding grip. “And, apparently, quick to come at your master’s call.”

“You’re _not_ my master,” Jounouchi said roughly. In his position, the irony of that statement was plainly laughable, but it was still true: he needed to say it while he could, needed Kaiba to understand that he was nobody’s bitch. “Doesn’t matter what fucked up magic you use. You’ll never own me. I’ll never bow to you, not of my own free will.”

Predictably, Kaiba took this as a challenge. “But you _will_ bow.”

Jounouchi’s body jerked, and then went fluidly down into dogeza, palms and forehead pressed flush against the cool tile floor.

“Beg me,” Kaiba said softly. “Beg me like the dog you are. Beg me to stay.”

The words forced themselves out of his mouth, sickeningly respectful, tinged with the bitter tang of truth, and he hated every single one. “Please. Kaiba-sama. Please don’t leave me.”

He could hear the smirk in Kaiba’s clear, low voice. “No.”

He wasn’t surprised. Kaiba was an addict, and winning was his drug. He’d take a hit however he could get it. He wanted Jounouchi to show his weakness, pull it like a worm from the earth, a useless, wriggling little thing, and then crush it beneath his boot. Was this his retaliation? Revenge against Jounouchi for daring to touch him?

There was always going to be a wall between them, and Jounouchi was a fool for ever thinking it might’ve come down, even just a little.

Jounouchi rose out of the bow like there was hook in his spine, pulling him backwards, but he was free to speak again.

“Then why are you still here?” he snarled. “Leave if you’re gonna leave. Just do me a favor, huh? Don’t come back.”

“Why would I come back for a useless idiot like you?” The keys shone in Kaiba’s hand; he rattled them. “You’ve already given me the only thing you're worth.”

Jounouchi ground his teeth. He fought back the rising sting behind his eyes. It wasn’t fair—but these days, that was how the game was played, and Kaiba was always playing, always looking to gain the upper hand. He was lucky Kaiba wasn’t killing him. He was lucky this was all it was. “Then fuck off already,” he spat. “So I never have to see you again.”

Kaiba looked down at him.

“You want me to go that badly?” he said, cruelly soft. “But you just begged me to stay. Which is it, Jounouchi?”

Again, the unwanted compulsion to answer truthfully rose in him, and he said, heat flushing up his neck, “What do you think? I’m so—so fucking alone. I miss my friends. I don’t know if my family is even alive. I _hate_ this. And I hate you, but you’re the only living person I’ve seen in a month. Everyone else is dead or wants to kill me. If it has to be you—you’re an asshole, but at least I _know_ you.”

He gave a harsh noise of frustration, of being forced to lay his stupid, conflicting feelings out like this, raw and ugly, but the scepter pulled at him, and he kept going.

“And I know,” he continued through gritted teeth, “that you know how I feel. You’re not completely soulless, Kaiba. You haven’t gone totally crazy yet. You could’ve knocked me out with that thing the minute you got your hands on it. But you didn’t. You’re lonely too. Not having the real Mokuba around is killing you, I saw you. Whatever the fuck that was. And Atem—”

“Quiet,” Kaiba snapped, and the words abruptly cut off.

Jounouchi waited, but Kaiba did nothing. A summer breeze stirred his hair. In the dim silence, cicadas sang.

Eventually, he said, “Stand up.”

Jounouchi stood.

“Come here.”

Jounouchi went.

Kaiba fit his hand back against Jounouchi’s throat, but didn’t squeeze. He stared hard at the place where their bodies connected: Jounouchi’s pulse beat against the stretch of web between his forefinger and thumb. Adrenaline coursed through him.

The hand drifted down from his throat to his chest. Jounouchi’s heart pounded in his ears: loud, heavy thumps, humiliatingly obvious. He knew Kaiba could feel each one, hammering rabbit-quick against his palm.

The hand dropped lower, to his side—found Jounouchi’s wrist, guided it forward—and placed his palm against his crotch.

He was still hard.

Kaiba said nothing, staring at him, challenging, but Jounouchi was unable to look down to see what his own hand was doing. He wasn’t allowed—Kaiba’s iron grip on his mind wouldn't let him. But he could feel it, the line of pure, heavy heat against his palm. Jounouchi’s stomach writhed. This close, Kaiba’s eyes shone deeply blue, and he was staring right _at him_ , right through him, and his biting gaze didn’t waver even a little as Jounouchi’s hand began to pick at the button of his jeans.

Then the zipper came down, and he was reaching beneath the waistband of Kaiba’s underwear by feel alone. His fingers wrapped around stiff, searing hot flesh. The shock of holding Kaiba’s bare cock went through him like a shot, but he wasn’t given any time to process it; already, he was stroking, slowly but firmly, a passenger in his own body.

His hand followed foreign rhythms and pressures that he knew instinctively must be to Kaiba’s exact preferences. How he touched himself, how he liked to be touched. The thought sent magmatic heat bubbling in his gut again, thick and awful.

It wasn’t sex. It was masturbation, except Kaiba was using Jounouchi’s body as a proxy to do it. But why? Why would he do this? So he could get off without the hassle of Jounouchi fighting back? So he could control every single aspect of the encounter, down to his partner’s every move?

The rhythm increased, but not by much. Kaiba seemed to like slow, hard pulls. He was angling his hips into them now, meeting each stroke, and he’d tipped his head down to watch, eyes shuttered, beginning to glaze. The slide was wetter and easier each time Jounouchi’s fist passed over the head of his cock.

He ached to see. He wanted to watch so badly. But it was enough to look at Kaiba’s face, to see the way his mouth parted, the way his lashes swept against his cheeks, the thin sheen of sweat on his jaw: obvious signs of pleasure from a man who had always seemed completely sexually and emotionally unavailable, cold and bloodless and aloof. Jounouchi had never expected to see past Kaiba’s ironclad exterior, to be allowed to peek behind the curtain. It was excruciatingly, horribly intimate.

Kaiba’s eyelids fluttered. A shudder went through his body, but he didn’t make a sound. He went up on his toes as his cock jerked in Jounouchi’s hand; hot come coated his knuckles. And then it was over, and Kaiba was stepping away and doing up his fly before Jounouchi could feel him soften. There was no outward evidence to suggest Jounouchi had just gotten him off, save for the feeling of cooling semen on his hand, and the residual warm impression of a cock against his palm.

He was hard again, dick aching in unwanted sympathy, heart pounding in his chest, still trapped inside his own head—still unable to move or speak, unable to look anywhere but Kaiba’s face, schooled once more into a mask of disaffected calm.

Kaiba bent to pick up his pack, and stowed the Millenium Rod back within its depths.

“I don’t know how you do it, Jounouchi,” he said, voice low. “You’re like a cockroach, always managing to get by, even when you should’ve been crushed a long time ago. It’s a mystery to me how a born loser like you has managed to survive this long. But somehow, against all odds, you’re still here.” Kaiba turned, shouldering the pack. “However bad you think this is—you’ll get over it.”

Then he walked out of Jounouchi’s field of vision. His footsteps, as brisk and even as the tick of a clock, slowly faded away.

Jounouchi was still frozen to the spot, staring at the wall. He couldn’t move, couldn’t turn his head to watch Kaiba take his—Honda’s—bike. His face felt wet. Furious horror climbed in him as he waited, bile stinging the back of his throat. Was he doomed to stay like this, forever? Would Kaiba let ever him go? He heard the engine start, and then with a purring crunch of gravel, it was gone.

Five agonizing minutes later, long after he had any hope of catching up, the heat and pressure in his cock suddenly swelled to bursting. A second orgasm ripped through him like a gunshot, devastatingly abrupt. His breath caught, and he uttered a long, garbled, wordless moan in the back of this throat, unable to react as pleasure liquified his insides, as his hard dick pulsed in his jeans, as he came in what seemed like an unending avalanche of heat.

Then the scepter’s hold on him left. Just like that. As though a string had been cut.

He dropped to his hands and knees with a tortured groan, gasping for breath. His hips kicked forward into nothing. He trembled, sweat pricking down his neck, eyelashes clumped with sticky tears. Then he punched the floor.

“Fuck,” he panted. “You fucking bastard!”

His knuckles throbbed. His whole body throbbed. It took a minute to get his breath back, to make his body come down from feeling so good while his heart ached so badly. He still felt Kaiba’s hand against his throat, squeezing tight.

“Sorry, Honda,” he whispered. “I’m so sorry. I’ll get it back. I promise.”


End file.
